When The Lights Go Dark
by Cassandra Starr
Summary: In "Spring Awakening" the lights go down on Wendla disappearing beneath the tavern. But what if someone heard her scream? Loopholes! Rated T for swearing and sexual references. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

"_Mama!_"

The frightened shriek cut through the night. A few men in the tavern paused, but went back to their drinking. They had heard it before; they would hear it again.

They may have resigned themselves to that fact, but the girl in the shadows outside had not. Stepping around the corner to see who the unfortunate was, she felt nausea overtake her.

_No. Please, no._

Ignoring the buzzing in her head, Ilse ran forward and yanked hard at the hand disappearing through the door beneath the tavern. Wendla Bergmann, pale and sobbing, fell forward into her arms.

"Ilse, help me! Don't let them, please! Please!"

Ilse felt herself fold under Wendla's weight and sank to the ground, taking the other girl with her.

"What are you doing?" the abortionist hissed, appearing in the doorway and trying to pull Wendla up again. "This is not any of your business!"

Ilse curled her body around Wendla's, forming a protective shell. "Leave her be!"

"Ilse?" Frau Bergmann moved closer. "What are you doing here? No, I suppose that doesn't matter. Ilse dear, you must let Wendla go. She's... ill. Herr Schmitz is going to help her."

Ilse laughed crazily. "Ill? I know what kind of illness Herr Schmitz remedies. Frau Bergmann, please listen to me. Herr Schmitz's methods don't always work. I know girls who've visited him and haven't come back."

"Shut up, girl!" Herr Schmitz raised a threatening hand, but Frau Bergmann pushed it back down.

"There's a risk to everything. We have no choice!" She seemed to be pleading with Ilse. "We have to get rid of it."

"I don't want you to!" Wendla sobbed. "Please, Mama!"

"If she has the baby she'll be an outcast. We'll be outcasts!"

"So I'll take her!" Ilse shrieked, completely losing any calm she had retained through the conversation. "I'm leaving tonight. She can come with me!"

A silence fell over the group at these words. Ilse brushed a hand over her lips, eyes wide with shock.

_Did I just say that?_

"But the questions..." whispered Frau Bergmann uncertainly.

"Tell them she went to live with a relative. Tell them she went away to school. Tell them she died!" Ilse suggested wildly.

Slowly, Frau Bergmann began to nod. "Yes... yes. If this..." She turned to her daughter. "Wendla?"

"I'll go with Ilse," Wendla said, wiping her tears and smiling hopefully.

Frau Bergmann nodded again, a short and painful jerk. "Alright. Herr Schmitz, your services will not be needed." She thrust a coin into his hand. "For... your time."

The man shot Ilse one last dirty look and disappeared through the door beneath the tavern, softly and violently cursing.

Ilse deftly pulled Wendla to her feet, keeping one arm looped around the smaller girl's waist. "We should go."

Frau Bergmann kissed her daughter's forehead, and then Ilse's as well. "Keep her safe?" she begged softly.

"I will," agreed Ilse. "I'll come back for her things when I can. We won't be far, at least not until... Wendla can travel again."

Frau Bergmann smiled crookedly and turned on her heel, walking faster and faster until she was lost in the night.

The girls stared dully at the place she had been standing.

"What now?" Wendla asked softly.

Responsibility. Ilse had to man up and shoulder it, just as she always had. Wendla was too delicate, now more than ever. Taking a deep breath she said, "Back to my place. It's on the edge of Priapia. Can you handle the walk?"

Wendla shrugged. "Do I have a choice?"

"Nope." Somehow, this remark was insanely funny to both girls. A smattering of giggles turned into full – on laughs, which swiftly rose into hysterical shrieks.

"Oh, God," Ilse gasped, scrubbing at the tears pouring down her face. "We have _so_ many problems."

Wendla nodded happily. "At least Herr Schmitz won't be able to do anything about these ones!"

Ilse tightened her grip on her friend's waist, her throat so filled with unnamed emotion she thought it would split open. "Come on, Wendla. Let's go home."

***

"It's over this way!" Ilse called back to the other girl. The trek through the woods had taken its toll on her; Wendla was lagging behind Ilse by a considerable distance.

"Right," replied Wendla tonelessly.

Ilse cursed herself silently; she had to be careful with her friend. "Hurry it up a bit and I'll make you some tea," she wheedled, pausing so Wendla could catch up.

Together they stepped into a clearing. The sound of running water revealed a nearby river, the same one that ran through town. And in the middle of the clearing sat a caravan, much like that of the gypsies.

"Is that yours?" Wendla asked breathlessly.

Ilse nodded, keeping her head down. "It isn't much, but a friend of mine was moving on and didn't want it, so..."

Wendla was already running to fling open the door.

"Ilse!"

The inside of the caravan was a mess of reds and purples and gold. Scarves were draped across the windows and the two chairs pulled up to the small wooden table; a bright patchwork quilt covered the double bed built into the wall.

"It's not very big, and I haven't exactly been tidying things up lately..." mumbled Ilse, stepping in after her.

Wendla stared at her, her soft lips forming a perfect O. "What are you talking about? It's beautiful!" She immediately began poking around in the built-in cupboards and shelves. "This is incredible!"

Shaking her head, Ilse filled the kettle with water from the barrel and placed it on the stovetop.

"Tea'll be ready in a few, but if you want something hot to eat I'll have to build up the fire again, it's nothing but embers."

"Just the tea is fine," Wendla called from under the bed.

Grinning, Ilse crept over and slapped Wendla's protruding backside.

"Oh!" The sound of skull connecting with wood could be heard. "Ow, shit!"

"Since when did you start swearing?" Ilse asked as she pulled her out into the open. "Head okay?"

Wendla nodded. "I think it was about the time I found out about the baby. I'm already going to hell, so I might as well curse."

Ilse giggled and pulled a nightgown from a drawer. "Put this on, I'll get the kettle."

When the water had been poured into two mugs and dried mint had been added Ilse turned to face Wendla in nothing but her drawers.

"Ilse!" Wendla squealed, yanking the nightgown over her head.

"Sorry," Ilse mumbled. "Here..." She thrust a mug at Wendla and sat down rather shakily on the bed. The image of Wendla's abdomen was firmly burned into her retinas.

Swollen. Protruding. Definitely pregnant.

She had known; of course she had known. But seeing it was different. It was too real and scary.

_Wendla, I always thought I'd be the one to fuck things up..._

Ilse gulped down the tea and began to prepare for bed, splashing leftover water from the kettle onto her face and scrubbing her teeth furiously at the sink, watching her spit disappear through the drain and straight onto the ground below the caravan.

"I've got a spare toothbrush," she said, keeping her back to Wendla. She shed her clothes and tried to put on a nightgown, but her hands were shaking too badly. Wendla moved in front of her and wordlessly did up the buttons before pulling back the blankets on the bed and gesturing for Ilse to lie down, tucking them firmly around her.

When Wendla had finished her own washing up she crawled in beside Ilse, butting her head gently against her shoulder.

"Are you mad at me, Ilse?"

Was she? But... no, that wasn't fair. She had volunteered to take Wendla with her. And whatever had happened to get her in this condition wasn't Wendla's fault.

Was it?

"Wendla, I..." Ilse sighed and propped her head on her hand so she could see into Wendla's eyes, grey-blue and brown locked together.

_This was not supposed to happen to you. How could you let it?_

"Just tell me. Who was it?"

Wendla's eyes filled with tears and her voice became very small and high. "Melchior Gabor. Ilse, I didn't mean to... I didn't think... I didn't know!" she wailed.

Ilse opened her arms then, feeling any resentment wash away. Yes, Wendla had been stupid, but she was still her friend and she needed her.

"Thank you," Wendla whispered, burying herself in her friend's embrace. "For saving me and the baby and..."

"Shush, Wendla," murmured Ilse. "Go to sleep now. We'll talk about it in the morning. Alright?"

Wendla nodded, smiled sweetly through her tears, and closed her eyes. Ilse stayed awake a long time holding her, waiting until Wendla's breathing had become soft and rhythmic before dropping off herself.

_Melchior Gabor, I will fucking KILL you..._


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm going into town tonight." Ilse said this casually, but the look she shot Wendla was definitely guilty.

"And you're telling me now?" Wendla asked irritably, putting the two dishes of stew on the table with more force than necessary. "Thanks a lot, Ilse."

"I didn't want you to be upset-"

Wendla cut her off. "Upset? Why would I be upset over you going into town even though I can't?"

The two settled into a heavy silence for a moment before Ilse observed lightly, "The carrots didn't do anything to you, Wendla."

Her friend stopped stabbing at vegetables long enough to shoot her a supremely dirty look. "That's not funny."

After three weeks of living together, Ilse had gotten used to Wendla's erratic moods and was no longer offended. Humming softly, she spooned up some stew. "This is really good."

Wendla had taken over most of the cooking as soon as she arrived, seeing as Ilse's knowledge stretched to throwing food in a frying pan and praying they didn't burn or explode. She had even begun to send pastries to town for the peddlers to sell, bringing in small amounts of money. Ilse, whose mother had never taught her the finer points of baking, hadn't used money in Priapia before. Running errands for the resident healer and helping with her garden provided Ilse with eggs and produce; material objects were obtained through bartering or were thank-you gifts for modeling for the many young artists.

"I'm glad you like it," Wendla replied curtly. "If Abigail will give you some extra eggs I thought I'd make an omelet for supper tomorrow."

"I'll pick her up some woodruff on my way home, that'll be a fair trade."

"So you're still going?" asked Wendla, her lip quivering.

"I have to!" Ilse cried, thoroughly exasperated. "I can get your things for you and figure out what the hell is going on over there."

Wendla's voice dropped to a tearful whisper. "I don't like being alone."

_Fan-fucking-tastic. _

Wendla had moved smoothly from cranky to weepy, a mood much harder to ignore.

Ilse crossed to stand behind her friend and slung her arms around her. "I won't be gone long, you know that."

"I know. I'm sorry Ilse, I'm being such a baby about all this..."

"Not your fault," Ilse replied, giving her a quick squeeze. "If you're nice I'll egg Herr Schmitz's door on my way out."

Wendla laughed and moved to begin washing the dishes, any sourness forgotten. Passing Ilse another dish to dry she asked absently, "Did you ever get lonely before?"

Ilse paused for a moment, biting her lip. "I don't know... Maybe. I liked being alone most of the time. It was nice to have quiet sometimes."

"Things aren't quiet with me around?" Wendla teased. "I understand why you like being on your own here. It's like playing house!"

"And no boys allowed!"

Wendla made a face. "Ugh, boys. I could go the rest of my life without one and be happy!" She absentmindedly placed a hand to her stomach.

Ilse nodded and turned away so Wendla couldn't see her expression. There had been one boy for her, but he hadn't stayed. On the quiet nights alone she had often wondered if she would have to go her life without a man to love.

_No use thinking about it; sulking won't change what happened._

"I should head out now. I wouldn't want to be calling on your mother too late." Ilse pulled on her boots and fastened her cloak over her dress.

"Warm enough?" Wendla asked, adjusting the hood.

"I'll be fine, it's pretty mild out tonight. Don't wait up, alright?"

Wendla rolled her eyes as she hugged her. "_Fiiiine_."

***

Ilse walked swiftly and silently through the town, anxious to be home. It was only about eight o'clock, and if she hurried she could be back around eleven. She only paused once she reached Anna's house. The lights in her bedroom window were on, and shadows danced over the curtains. Not the single shadow of a girl quietly doing her homework, but three shadows...

_Of course._

Ilse sighed as she observed her childhood friends in the get-together she would be forever barred from. She found that she missed them all. What were they doing up there?

She moved down the garden path, closer to the window, straining her ears to catch a bit of conversation, and found herself rewarded.

"Why shouldn't we open it? She isn't here, and if it's important..."

"It could be private!"

Ilse heard one of the girls mutter something in response and then, before she could move, the curtain was pulled back and she was face-to-face with Martha, Anna, and Thea.

No one spoke as Martha opened the window and roughly pulled Ilse over the ledge.

Thea, small, skinny, and cute as ever, stuck both fists on her bony hips as she leaned over the girl sprawled on the floor. "Where have you been?!" she growled fiercely. "You can't just leave us without any explanation!"

"Apparently I can," Ilse snapped. Dealing with Wendla's moods was one thing; taking it from Thea was another entirely. "God, who do you think you are, my mother?"

"It's not about controlling you, Ilse!" interjected Martha. "But since we're your friends it would be nice to have a little information so we don't feel the need to panic when you suddenly drop off the face of the earth!"

Anna had been standing off to the side, not adding to the conversation. As she turned to look at the group, Ilse saw tears in her eyes. "We were worried. You disappeared and then Wendla..." Anna pressed her sleeve to her eyes, soaking up the tears before they could fall. "She's dead, Ilse."

Ilse felt a wave of shock wash over her. "What?" So Frau Bergmann had taken her seriously. Well, it made sense. No friends would try to contact Wendla; no further questions would be asked. It made sense, but the cruelty was overwhelming.

"The funeral was two weeks ago. Anemia." Anna was crying in earnest now, and Martha and Thea looked close to joining her.

Ilse pulled Anna into a fierce hug, then motioned for the other two to join them. It seemed horrible to let them believe Wendla dead, but it was the only way.

The unfairness of the situation brought tears to her eyes as Ilse clutched at the weeping girls. Good, she reflected, more realistic.

As everyone regained control of themselves Anna let out a cry and ran to her desk. "Ilse, there's a note here for you! Your mama told us to take the clothes you left that fit us, and someone slipped it in your window."

"It looks like Melchior Gabor's handwriting," said Thea, blushing.

"I'm not even going to ask how you know that," Ilse murmured as she opened the envelope and began to read aloud. "Ilse: I have been running for days, but at last I am back. Now I beg you, for the sake of our old friendship, bring Wendla to meet me tonight in the graveyard behind the church."

"Oh, no!" Anna whispered.

"I will be waiting there at midnight," Ilse continued. "Melchior Gabor."

"So he hasn't heard," Thea ventured lamely.

"Waiting for Wendla," murmured Martha.

"Poor Melchior," Thea said with a sigh, laying her head on Martha's shoulder.

Anna shook her head. "Poor Wendla!"

_Wendla's fine, she's probably asleep right now, safe in her bed!_ _She's alive. She's not gone!_

But Ilse could not say these things, so she just nodded. Melchior Gabor, home. Wendla had mentioned telling him about the baby; that must have made him come back. Well, at least he wasn't abandoning his child.

Midnight in the graveyard. It had been awhile since she'd visited Moritz's grave; perhaps she would tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

"Ilse?" Frau Bergmann stared at her, eyes wide with shock. "Come in, quickly!"

Ilse stepped over the threshold, making a point not to wipe her feet. "I'm here for Wendla's belongings," she informed her coldly.

"Of course you are." Frau Bergmann ushered Ilse up the stairs and into Wendla's room.

It was as though time had frozen in the small bedroom. Same white coverlet, same bookcase full of fairytales, same collection of rag dolls in a basket at the end of the bed. One of Wendla's nightgowns was even laid out on the chair, ready to be put on.

Ilse took the carpetbag Frau Bergmann handed her and began to put things inside. The wooden comb with flowers carved on the handle, underclothes and stockings, a nightgown... She flung open the wardrobe and rummaged through the dresses hanging neatly inside.

"These ones." Frau Bergmann selected three everyday dresses. "They're a bit too big; she'll need that... later on." She also placed a short white frock in the bag, patting it fondly. "Her fairy-queen dress."

"The one you wouldn't let her wear."

"Are you angry with me, child?" asked Frau Bergmann, the smile disappearing.

Ilse had to admire her for getting straight to the point. "I am, actually."

Frau Bergmann sniffed and folded a sweater for packing. "You've no reason to be. You and Wendla begged for her not to go to Herr Schmitz, and I allowed her to keep the baby." With that she turned away, obviously done with the conversation.

Ilse stamped her foot in frustration. How could she be so comfortable about lying to a town? More than ever, Ilse found herself hating adults.

_Self righteous idiots._

"You lied!" Ilse accused, staring at her back. "You told them she was dead!"

Frau Bergmann whirled around, closing the space between her face and Ilse's. Her complexion had turned an unusual shade of magenta. "I did what I had to do! You think you know everything, but let me tell you, girl, you have a lot to learn! You think I want my daughter to be away from me?" She let out a short burst of hysterical laughter, one that sent Ilse staggering backwards, a wad of calico sleeve pushed into her mouth to prevent a fearful whimper from escaping.

_Here's the part where she hits me. Here's the part where it starts again._

But Frau Bergmann simply continued, "You think I like having Anna Falkland and Thea Neumann come by every morning on their way to school and try not to cry because Wendla won't be joining them? Or seeing Martha Bessel down at that empty grave begging God to punish her instead?" Frau Bergmann threw a boot across the room, eyes blazing, growing louder and louder. "I am protecting my child! I am protecting myself, but I am also protecting Wendla, and don't you forget it! If she stayed here she'd be the cautionary tale, the little whore who couldn't keep her legs closed! They would destroy her." She sank onto the bed, burying her face in her hands, barely above a whisper. "They would destroy my baby and not even care."

Ilse stared at her, caught somewhere between extreme shock, terror, and amusement. It was somehow refreshing to see a grown-up lose control.

"Frau Bergmann..." she began awkwardly, sitting down beside her. "You... you're right. There's a lot I don't understand. But what you just did there was amazing."

Frau Bergmann gave her a weak smile. "So how is my irresponsible daughter?"

"She's alright. She still vomits sometimes in the morning, but not as much. And her moods are very interesting."

This time the older woman actually laughed. "That's to be expected. If she can just remember to slow down in the morning the nausea will improve. Unfortunately, there's nothing I can suggest for her temperament."

"Am I forgetting anything?" Ilse asked, peering into the bag.

"Wait right here." Frau Bergmann rushed into the hall and began searching the linen closet for something. Ilse sighed and absentmindedly put Wendla's favorite rag doll in the bag. Maybe the baby would like it...

"Here they are!" Frau Bergmann triumphantly held a stack of white cloth. "Diapers," she explained, tucking them in tenderly, "and some undershirts, and a jumper suit."

"Those will be nice to have." Ilse felt her throat tighten slightly. The baby was going to become a part of their lives; there was no ignoring that. A big, screaming, scary part of their lives. The church bell clanged the hour; eleven. "I should be going now."

"Somewhere to be?" asked Frau Bergmann casually.

"Yes." Ilse didn't explain further, and Frau Bergmann didn't ask as she led the girl to the door.

"Take care," she murmured sadly, watching her only link to the child she'd done wrong walk away.

Ilse nodded. Hefting the bag she began to walk briskly towards the graveyard.

_One down, one to go._

***

A twig snapped in the brush on the edge of the graveyard, so close Ilse almost fell out of her perch in the tree. And Melchior Gabor, dusty, tousle-haired, and exhausted, emerged from the shadows.

He circled the graves and addressed the night. "Look at this... spend your life running from the church and where do you wind up?" He paused at a grave, one with a bunch of forget-me-knots that had been placed there minutes before, and knelt. "Moritz... my old friend." He gave the grave a sorrowful look that hardened into anger. "Well, they won't get to me! Or Wendla. I won't let them!" The bell chimed twelve times. "Midnight." He stood and looked to the outskirts of the property. "Wendla!" He called, dashing anxiously from one side to the other. "My God," he murmured, pausing to stare at the section reserved for children and unconsciously crossing himself. "All these little tombs. And here-" He paused. "A fresh one!"

Ilse sucked in her breath, waiting. _Had he seen it?_

"Here rests Wendla Bergmann... No." He scrubbed frantically at the grave, trying to erase the words. "Born... Died. Of anemia!" He stopped and stared into the darkness, frozen. "Oh my God... WENDLA!" The reality of the situation seemed to hit and he began to sob. "No! NO! NO!" He fell forwards, keening and shaking.

Ilse slipped neatly to the ground, her experiment complete. But as she approached Melchior began to speak again. "Well, you had the right idea." To her horror, he pulled out his pocket knife, an insane grin splitting his face in half. "They'll scatter a little earth and THANK THEIR GOD!"

He lifted the knife to his throat and Ilse felt herself freeze. She wanted to stop him, but her body would not cooperate.

_Moritz. He's Moritz. God, NO!_

But before he could draw it across his throat and before she could knock it from his hand he jerked backwards, the knife falling to his side. Melchior seemed to see something she didn't as he lay on his front, crying and mumbling to himself. Slowly he righted himself, the incoherent words tumbling from his lips still too low for Ilse to catch. He raised the knife before him with blank, unseeing eyes, but seemed unable to drive it home as Ilse crept up behind him, closer and closer. Melchior stood, dropping the knife, growing louder and louder, until Ilse could make out a few words.

"You watch me, just watch me. I'm calling... I'm calling, and one day all will know!" His head dropped in defeat.

Ilse swiftly kicked the knife away from his feet and threw her arms around him from behind. "Melchior Gabor, you idiot, you idiot!" she whispered fiercely into his back, cursing herself as well as him as tears slid down her face.

Melchior spun around, took one look at her, and lifted her right off the ground in an embrace, grabbing thick handfuls of her hair and touching her bare arms as though to ensure she was there. "Oh God, Ilse, how much did you see? How much did you... hear?" he asked, suddenly self conscious.

"Couldn't make out much after you saw the grave," she sobbed, pounding his chest halfheartedly. "You ASS! I thought you were going to – and I couldn't – After what he did, you shouldn't even –"

He nodded. "I know."

But... no. This was wrong, this was not why she had come to the graveyard.

Ilse wriggled free of Melchior's arms and smiled up at him, wiping her face dry. "That was extremely touching, Melchi. Unfortunately, or rather fortunately, it was completely unnecessary."

"What?"

She laughed, relief making her giddy. "Wendla's not there. She's in Priapia. Frau Bergmann was going to... do something bad to her and the baby. So I took her away and the Bergmanns told everyone she died. She's alive!"

Melchior stared at her in disbelief for a moment, then let out a roar. "You... you... Ilse, what the hell is wrong with you?! You let me think she was dead?!"

"Well, I had to see if you actually cared about her. Because if you didn't there would be absolutely no reason to take you to her."

"Ilse, you know me! Of course I care about Wendla!" Melchior closed the knife and stuffed it into his pocket, fuming.

"Really?" Ilse asked, searching his eyes for any sign of dishonesty. "Because it doesn't seem very caring to screw your friend in a hayloft when you know how babies are made and she doesn't."

Melchior looked away, blushing, and for a moment Ilse saw the little boy he had left behind resurface in his eyes, caught in a lie and not clever enough to find an explanation. "That... was stupid. I wish I'd explained the risks, but..."

Ilse snorted derisively. "Men."

"So it's true, then?" The redness was fading from his face, leaving him pale and frightened.

_He's too young for this._

Melchior's tone turned pleading. "Wendla's really going to have a baby?"

She refused to reassure him. "Not _a_ baby; _your_ baby." Ilse picked up the carpetbag from the bottom of the tree. "Come on, we haven't got all night. I told Wendla I'd be back before now."

"Thank you, Ilse..."

"Don't think I'm doing this for you," Ilse retorted. "But you've taken the trouble to break out of the reformatory, so you might as well stick around."

***

"This is it?" Melchior asked uncertainly as he surveyed the caravan. A candle shone in the window; Wendla's doing.

"She's going to light the place on fire," Ilse muttered, slightly pleased. "Yes," she continued more loudly, "home sweet home." Melchior faltered at the entrance as Ilse stepped inside. "Don't be a baby, Melchior," she prodded softly, stepping aside and motioning to the bed.

Wendla lay curled up into a ball, fast asleep. Melchior's face split into a wide grin as he bent to stroke her flushed cheek. Brushing her ear with his lips he whispered, "Wendla, wake up."

Slowly, dreamily, she opened her eyes and sat up, staring at Melchior with a sort of half-smile. Then, without warning, Wendla slapped him across the face. Hard.

"What is WRONG with you?!" she screamed. "'Don't be scared. It's just me. You'll only have a BABY!' And then you go running off and leave me alone!"

"That wasn't my fault!" exclaimed Melchior, holding his hands to his face and backing up as subtly as possible. "I didn't run off, they sent me away! And it wasn't exactly a pleasant experience!"

"Oh, because I've just been having a fantastic time! At least you knew what you were getting yourself into!" Wendla's chest was heaving and her eyes were wild. "And you think you can just waltz in and expect me to be happy to see you? Get out of here! GET OUT!"

Melchior practically leaped out of the caravan, shaking his head in confusion. Wendla threw herself back onto the bed and buried her face in her pillow.

Ilse had collapsed in the corner, silently laughing. She took several deep breaths, fixed her face in a serious expression, and went to sit on the edge of the bed. "Wendla?" The other girl did not respond. Ilse sighed and began to gently rub her back, working at the tension until she felt Wendla's body completely relax beneath her hands.

"I've never hit anyone before," Wendla said rather tearfully.

Ilse smiled. "So I assumed."

Wendla rolled over to face Ilse. "Is he mad at me?"

"I think he's mostly mad at himself. To a certain point, he deserved exactly what you gave him. But he should get a little credit, you know. When he found out what happened he came right back."

Wendla sighed. "I suppose we can't leave him out there."

"Well, we could..."

"Ilse!"

"Only joking, only joking. Want me to go get him?"

"If you don't mind. I'd rather not talk to him yet." Wendla closed her eyes and within a minute was asleep again.

Melchior was seated on a stump outside, looking absolutely terrified.

"You can come back inside now," Ilse informed him cheerily.

He hesitated. "Is Wendla-?"

"She's sleeping. How's your face?"

Melchior gingerly prodded the ripe red mark blooming across his cheek. "Sore. Wendla's stronger than she looks."

Ilse nodded approvingly. "Good. You deserved it."

Melchior's jaw dropped slightly as he stared at her, a mixture of shock and admiration twisting his features. "Did you plan that?" he demanded.

"No," she replied, sighing happily, "but I had hoped."

Ilse knew that Wendla had never been able to hold a grudge. But for now Melchior would know, to quote, that 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned'. And she, for one, was going to enjoy every minute.


	4. Chapter 4

"Are you awake, Wendla?" Ilse asked, shaking her shoulder.

Without opening her eyes, Wendla asked, "Is Melchior still here?"

"Yes."

"Then no."

Ilse let out an exasperated sigh. "He's down at the river taking a bath, Wendla, and he'll be back soon, so hurry up and change."

Wendla slowly sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing slightly as she stood and made her way over to the sink.

"I've got some things for you," Ilse told her as Wendla washed her face.

"I forgot about that," said Wendla, now pulling a brush through her hair. "How's my mother?"

"She misses you. I saw the girls as well. They miss you... A lot."

"That's sweet." Wendla took the carpet bag from Ilse and began taking out the clothes. "Perfect, it'll be nice to have something that fits. Your dresses are too tight for me now." Ilse turned away to begin breakfast as Wendla dressed.

"We could have fried bread if you like," Ilse called over her shoulder.

"Don't say that word!"

"Bread?"

"No, fried." Wendla shuddered. "It makes me want to vomit just thinking about it."

"Alright, not fried bread."

"Ilse!"

"Sorry, sorry. What do you feel like eating, then?"

Wendla opened her mouth, but was cut off by Melchior's cheerful cry of, "Fried potatoes and sausages!" as he entered the caravan.

Wendla turned a sickly white, then leaned out the door and vomited.

"Thank you, Melchi," Ilse growled.

"What did I do?" asked Melchior, completely clueless.

***

"I should go over to Abigail's," Ilse announced, pushing back from the table and turning to dump her plate into the sink. Wendla shot her a look, which Ilse pointedly ignored. "Be back around two. Goodbye!" With that she was out the door, leaving Melchior and Wendla to stare at each other.

"I'll just... go and chop some wood for us, then?" Melchior suggested in a small voice.

Wendla nodded stiffly and turned away in a deliberate snub, waiting until he was gone to begin the day's work.

With the air of an artist sculpting a masterpiece, Wendla peeled and cut up several apples, which she threw into a pot with honey and cinnamon. While they boiled she mixed together flour and butter into dough. Melchior came in just as she was rolling it out.

"Can I help?" he asked cautiously as he pressed himself against the counter, snapping off some of the discarded apple peel and popping it into his mouth.

Wendla sighed. On the one hand, she'd love to stay angry at Melchior all her life; it would keep her from making any more mistakes with him. But... It took so much time and energy to be angry, and she lacked both. And he was offering to help her _bake_.

"Fine." Wendla tossed him a large, round cookie cutter. "Cut out the circle and slide it onto the other cutting board. Use a knife if it sticks. Then you put a scoop of this-" here she gestured to the pot, "on half of the circle. Then you fold the other part on top and press it closed with the fork."

Melchior clumsily attempted to follow her directions and ended up with a bulging, extremely lopsided turnover, which he held out to her nervously. "Wendla...?"

To his surprise and delight she laughed and said, "We can keep that one." As she reached for the cutter Wendla reached up to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear, leaving a streak of flour on her cheekbone.

Without thinking Melchior brushed it off for her, flinching as he felt her stiffen under his touch. "Oh God! I'm sorry! I should have..."

"No. Please, Melchi." Wendla walked quickly to the sink, holding onto the rim for support. "Don't apologize to me. I've been a... a bitch to you since last night and I shouldn't have and it wasn't really your fault because I _knew_ it was wrong, but I didn't want to stop and it was _so good_ and I still want... I still want..."

Melchior reached out and pulled her onto his lap. "I know. I want our paradise back too."

"How did everything go so wrong?" Wendla asked almost desperately. "We were doing alright!"

"It wasn't alright at all," protested Melchior. "We didn't know anything or feel anything. Wendla, we weren't anything! It was just a different kind of wrong." Wendla relaxed in his arms, laying her head on his shoulder. Melchior softly nuzzled his nose into her neck and inhaled deeply.

Lavender soap, cinnamon, fresh apples, and an indescribable scent of Wendla.

_Paradise._

"I missed you," whispered Wendla. And slowly, carefully, she turned up her face and began to kiss him. Melchior's lips seemed to meld to hers, gently slipping his tongue into her mouth, scraping his teeth over her upper lip.

Suddenly, Wendla pulled away, her eyes wide.

"Wendla, what's wrong?"

She took his hand and pressed it to a spot on her engorged stomach, trying to keep her voice calm. "Can you feel that? It's doing it again."

It was only a flutter. Small. But there.

They were only children. He spoke like a man and carried himself as proudly; she had the gentle curves and soft, graceful touch of a woman. But still they were planted on the outskirts of adulthood. How could two children understand the wonder of a new life, the responsibility of parenthood, the joy and pain and limitless change a baby would bring them? It is said that children cannot comprehend these things.

But then again, it is also said that the moon is made of cheese.

Covering his hand with hers Wendla murmured, "I think we're alright again."

He nodded and began to kiss her again, a new hunger and meaning in his motions as his lips caressed her jawbone, her neck, the dip in her collarbone...

A sharp cough caught their attention. Ilse stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest and scowling magnificently. "What the two of you do when you're alone is none of my business," she said crossly. "But I would like to remind you both that I sleep in that bed too."

* * *

Yeah, I had problems with this chapter and ended up just wanting it over with so I could move on. The next one will be better. I have ideas for later chapters, but is there anything you, the fabulous reader, would like to see in this story? A situation they find themselves in? Post a chapter idea in a review or a message to me and I will do my best to make it happen.


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